


Bruised Water

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Self-Lubrication, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5222837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard finds a stray elf and takes him home. Thus Lindir finds new things to tidy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Find

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Lindir has HAD it. He's finally had enough of working for Elrond, so he picks up his belongings and what money he has and leaves. He just goes, with no destination in mind, and somehow manages to end up on the Long Lake, and stumbles across Bard. Lindir, is near desperation. He's just about out of money, near hysterics about how filthy he is and has no idea what hes going to do. Bard is a little shocked to see an elf so he approaches it to see if it's alright, only to see the elf is dirty and in tears, so he offers to help him. Lindir is a little hesitant at first, but gives in when he realizes he doesnt have much else of a choice. Once they make it to Bards' home in Laketown, Lindir finally gets clean and gathers himself, to notice how messy Bards home is. Bard makes a pallet for him to sleep on, but he cant sleep. He NEEDS to clean his house, its too filthy to handle (well, for someone with OCD) and all hes used to doing is keeping a house up to order. Since he no longer cares for Elronds home, where he had routine and cleanliness and control, hes about gone insane, so he decides to take over the role for Bards family. Bard sees no problem with a pretty elf helping around the house ~Can be humorous, with all the people of Laketown gossiping about how Bard has a new wife ~Can be serious, with INTENSE OCD (washing hands till they bleed, very strict, odd routines, ticks) and Bard having to help talk Lindir out of episodes (which sounds pretty nice actually)” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=21319167#t21319167).
> 
> Title is from [Chicane vs Natasha Bedingfield - Bruised Water](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtYoC_S2RW0) [(Adam K and Soha vocal mix is my fav)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBhgTJsob1o)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s another miserable day, which doesn’t surprise him or affect him. It isn’t quite raining yet, which is a small mercy. But the grey clouds overhead portend of it, and it’s cold enough that he’s tempted to drape the spare blanket over his shoulders. It’ll make him work slower. He packs the barrels one-by-one, half wishing he had the will to move faster and try to beat the rain home. 

Then he hears something, faint and small, beyond the rocks, and Bard’s hand reaches automatically for his bow. It isn’t often that he runs into any trouble, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen, and he always comes prepared. He can’t afford not to. Tensed and not moving on the dock, he waits for another sign that something’s off, and then it comes again: a quiet, hitch-pitched thing. Bard draws his bow and sets to moving around the bend.

He doesn’t get far when he finds the source of the sound and witnesses the third repeat: an elf, huddled up against the rock, looks at him with wide eyes, then doubles over in a sneeze. Bard lowers his bow instantly. His people are on truce with the elves of Mirkwood, and he wouldn’t think his arrow fast enough to pierce one, anyway. And he’d never shoot something like this, curled up and sad-looking, wiping pathetically at their nose. 

A part of him nags to return to the boat; this is clearly none of his business. But Bard has difficulty leaving hard-luck cases, and a few steps closer tells the whole story. The elf shrinks away from him but doesn’t get up to run, though Bard’s sure the elf could flee like an elk if he needed to. This one’s a man, he thinks, though like the few other elves he’s seen, the elf is lithe and distinctly _pretty_ , even dirtied though he is. His long, straight hair is a mess down his shoulders, dark brown and fraying at the ends. His robes are muddied, too thin and silken, when Bard would expect hunter’s garb. The elf is shivering terribly, and Bard can see where water lines his cheeks—he’s been _crying_.

Bard’s heart clenches, and he comes closer in slow steps, putting his bow clearly away and holding out his hands: a show of peace. When he’s just an arm’s length away, he kneels down. The elf pulls his legs tighter against himself. Bard asks, gently as he can, “Are you alright?”

The elf just looks at him with big, hurt eyes and small, pouting lips. No response comes, though Bard gets the distinct impression he’s being sized up. The elf’s gaze locks with his. Bard licks his lips and tries again, nodding down the path as he wonders, “What’re you doing so far from the woods?”

Another moment of silence, and the elf seems to judge him worthy enough to answer. In a quiet, melodic voice, he’s told: “I am not from the Woodland Kingdom.”

Bard lifts an eyebrow and glances at the elegant points of the elf’s ears, sure that he’s not mistaken. “Where, then?”

The elf opens his mouth, closes it, then murmurs, “Imla... Rivendell. It is very far away.”

“An Elven city,” Bard muses. “Why would you ever leave such a place to come to this awful lake?” 

The elf twists his nose, and it occurs to Bard that the elf might not have known. Perhaps he still thought Dale thriving, or even Erebor. Or he’d heard fanciful descriptions of a quaint little town on a lake, with no notion of how ragged and cold it is. 

The elf looks cold enough. He shouldn’t be out here, and Bard thinks to offer his coat, only it’s full of holes and it smells, in need of a good wash, a good mend—nothing worthy of a creature so beautiful. The blanket in his boat is little better, but it’s something. He offers out his hand, but the elf only stares at it. Bard asks, coaxing, “What’s your name?” When the elf’s eyes flicker up, Bard adds, “Mine’s Bard.”

The elf slowly admits, “Lindir.”

Bard repeats, “Lindir,” and finds himself muttering, “it’s a pretty name.” The fair skin across Lindir’s pale cheeks becomes slightly pinker, and it makes Bard gruffly change the subject—it’s been too long, and he didn’t mean to say something inappropriate to a creature probably twice his age and a dozen times his worth. “If you’re lost, I can take you to the Woodland Realm—”

But Lindir shakes his head and says firmly, “There is nothing for me there. Their lord...” but he cuts off, slams his mouth shut, and it leaves Bard offering his hand again. 

“If you need somewhere to stay then, I have a roof. You shouldn’t be out here alone in this weather. You’ll get even sicker.”

Lindir looks like he might protest. But then he lets out a sudden sneeze, and it might be the cutest thing Bard’s ever seen in his life. He didn’t even know elves _could_ get sick. But this one scrunches up his face and rubs at his nose in dismay before wildly batting at his sleeve, though nothing came out of his delicate nose. Bard reaches for his hand just to stop him fussing. Lindir pauses, clearly hesitates, but then he dips his head in what might be acquiescence, might be gratitude. He allows Bard to gently pull him up to his feet.

He trips once on his way to the boat, looking wholly distressed at the mud on his sandals, but Bard catches him and holds him and guides him steadily down, until he’s safe in the center of the barge.

* * *

Lindir’s quiet for most of the way across the lake. When Bard asks again why he left his home, he murmurs, “It could not... fulfill me.” And then he won’t say anymore. He sits and looks out across the water. Even in his sullied state, he looks almost obscenely beautiful. 

And Bard mostly tries not to think about that. He’s wrapped the blanket securely around Lindir’s shoulders and crowded in the rest of the barrels. Lindir tries not to touch them. It’s clear that he’s greatly disturbed by certain things, maybe the terrible ill repair of Bard’s boat, but there’s nothing Bard can do about it for now. 

So he rows them safely back and thinks of what he’ll do with one lone elf he knows nothing about. He would think an elf, especially one so small and timid, safe around his children. But he doesn’t know how to keep an elf safe, or where to send him. Bard’s heard that elves _fade_ when they lose the will to live. He hopes that isn’t happening to this one, though Laketown would make a fitting grave. 

When they near the town’s silhouette, now almost entirely dark and lit with spare torches and the glimmer of the ice, Bard recounts the line of his fathers, just to fill the silence. He thinks elves introduce themselves that way, or maybe it’s the dwarves. Lindir just looks at him and listens. 

When Bard asks who Lindir’s parents are, Lindir says he’s a servant and it doesn’t matter. It’s the one thing he doesn’t look bothered by, so Bard doesn’t press it. He just helps Lindir onto the dock, unloads his barrels, and hurries Lindir off before Alfrid can stick his nose where it has no business being.

* * *

It’s just started raining by the time they get through the door. Lindir’s stopped sneezing, but he still clutches the blanket tight. As Bard locks the door behind them, always careful, Lindir murmurs, “Thank you, but I should...”

“Stay,” Bard says bluntly. There’s nowhere better in Laketown, though the place is in desperate need of a house for the downtrodden. The Master would never allow it. Lindir looks at him curiously, and Bard adds, “I’ll be right back.”

Then he has to leave. He heads quickly up the stairs, trying to be quiet in his heavy boots. He finds both his children’s doors shut and checks first on Bain and Tilda’s, finding them fast asleep inside. Sigrid, his oldest, has her own, and she’s curled up with a book beside her. She must’ve fallen asleep reading. He tiptoes in to put it on the nightstand and kiss her forehead, then leaves and wishes her door didn’t squeak when he closes it again. Everything in this house is falling apart. He can hear each beat of the rain against the roof and windows, and it feels like just a bit more force will be enough to knock it all down. 

When he returns to the first landing, Lindir’s standing by the kitchen table. His fingers are tentatively brushing across the wood, but they retract when he sees Bard. Bard can’t help but ask, “What?”

Lindir looks at first like he won’t say anything, then glances back to the table and murmurs, sounding pained, “You... eat on this?”

Bard, sure elves have tables, answers, “Yes.”

Lindir wrinkles his nose and mumbles, “It is... dirty.” Then he seems to tense again, looking at Bard apologetically.

But Bard just shrugs his shoulders and admits, “Everything in this town is dirty.” And he wouldn’t expect an elf to know or be alright with that. He has very little pride in his home. He turns towards the stairs and gestures for Lindir to follow. He’s half surprised when Lindir does.

There’s one more open room on the second landing, and Bard takes him to it, offering, “You can have my bed.” When Lindir shakes his head, Bard adds, “It’s alright. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You should not have to.”

“I don’t care,” Bard says, and he means it. He’s exhausted and just wants to sleep, and his bed’s no comfier. Just bigger and has more privacy. Lindir looks resistant, but Bard insists, softer, “You’re wet, and you’re cold. I’m not the one sniffling. Please.” He gestures inside again, and Lindir looks into the small room with the disheveled mattress and the blankets completely unmade. The outside light through the windows is pale, dancing from the rain, but enough. Lindir’s fingers tighten in the blanket around his shoulders. But he doesn’t protest again, so Bard takes that as agreement. 

He takes his leave and heads to the couch, sitting in the living room across from his open door, and flops down to face the wall. As usual when he’s come across the lake, he’s asleep in seconds.

The only difference this time is his dreams.


	2. Groundwork

When he wakes up in the morning, it doesn’t surprise him to be on the couch, though it takes him a second to remember why. Then he stretches out his arms and rolls over, eyeing both the doors across from him—Sigrid’s still closed and his half open. He doesn’t have to get up and check behind him to know that Bain and Tilda must still be asleep—if they were awake, he’d hear them.

Pushing off the couch and rubbing at his eyes, Bard lumbers to his bedroom through a slew of yawns. He never seems to sleep as much or as well as his body needs, but life goes on, and he always feels guilty lying back down. Besides, he has a guest to check on. 

He’s never had proper curtains—no sense wasting good fabric that could be used for clothes or blankets—but he doesn’t need the morning light to tell that something’s very _different_. Bard comes to a halt in the doorway, his hand falling down from his tired eyes. 

His bed’s made. He can’t remember the last time he ever bothered. Not just that, but it’s made _well_ , not from Sigrid’s loving touch or Bain’s sweet attempts, but strategically tucked around the mattress and devoid of a single wrinkle. His pillow looks fluffier than it ever has, and whiter besides. His nightstand sits neatly and squarely against the wall, though he’s sure it’s usually crooked from him dragging it about in the middle of the night when he needs something on it. There are two books on top of it lined up perfectly. There aren’t any clothes on his floor, but two folded piles atop his dresser. Perhaps one is clean, perhaps one is dirty. Although that wouldn’t make sense—why fold dirty clothes? The room looks like it’s never been slept in.

When he’s gotten over the shock of a clean room, worry sets in. Lindir was in no state to take off again, especially if he was headed east from the woods; as far as Bard knows, there aren’t any more Elven havens this way. At least it’s a small house to search.

There’s something off about his stairwell too—he runs his hand along the railing and finds, with another jolt of surprise, that it’s been dusted.

The kitchen—for now, since everything’s small and detached and constantly being shuffled around in a vain attempt for more space—is just at the bottom of the stairs. Bard’s more than a little relieved to spot Lindir inside, bent over the stove, with a rag in one hand. He’s scrubbing frantically at the burner, caked with blackened crumbs, then looks up at Bard and straightens. 

At first, Bard can’t look at anything else. He finds his lips parting in surprise, though he manages to keep his jaw from unhinging. The tears that once clung to Lindir’s cheeks have vanished, though his eyes are still wide and glimmering. He’s straightened out his hair, tamed it back into smooth, elegant strokes that catch in the sunlight through the window above the sink. It’s braided at the bottom over one shoulder, the little strands that fall over his ears sporting much thinner braids. He’s wearing the same robes as yesterday, but they’ve clearly been scrubbed clean. All of him is glistening, light and beautiful. He looks at Bard, for that moment, with no particular expression, and Bard feels vaguely like some fairytale creature has flown in to bless his home.

Belatedly, it hits him that the rest of the kitchen matches. Like his bedroom, everything’s been straightened out, dusted, and the table shimmers wetly like it’s just been washed. All the clutter that used to line it is now neatly positioned in the cupboard above the counter, where the cabinet door has been removed—it’d been hanging off the hinges for months. It’s now propped against the legs of the table, and Bard gets the odd sensation that that particular piece of work is _his job_.

None of the cleaning should be Lindir’s job. He can tell from the amount of work done to his grubby hovel that Lindir must not have slept at all. Bard doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t get a chance. Something walks right into his back, and he glances over his shoulder to find Sigrid still on the stairs, gaping at Lindir. Then her cheeks colour and she lifts a worried hand to her hair, sleep-mussed as it is. 

He can spot a crush forming a kilometer away, but for once, he doesn’t spare it any thought. Lindir doesn’t even look at her; he’s fixed on Bard. Bard imagines a teenage girl would be of little interest to an immortal elf. Bard gestures vaguely out and introduces, “Sigrid, this is Lindir. He’ll be staying with us for awhile.” Sigrid makes a small noise of acknowledgement, and Lindir nods politely at her, then looks back at Bard, who continues, “This is my daughter, Sigrid.”

Lindir doesn’t look like he has anything to say, but Sigrid blurts, “I... I should get dressed,” and then she spins around so fast her nightgown’s skirt slaps the back of Bard’s legs. He can hear her steps running up the stairs but can’t seem to turn and look.

Then he hears more sets of footsteps, sighs, and finds Bain and Tilda joining, ogling Lindir like the fairytale creature Bard thought him. He says again, “This is Lindir, he’s—”

“An elf,” Bain jumps in, and both children grin eagerly, always interested in new things and _adventure_ , though Lindir seems more of a domestic helper than the rogue traveler they’d like.

Bard says, “Yes. Lindir, this is Bain and Tilda.” He can see a vague question in Lindir’s eyes and adds, “That’s the whole family.”

“Where are you from?” Tilda asks, voice full of awe. She slips out around Bard before he can stop her, and then Bain makes it around the other side, coming up so close to Lindir that Bard’s worried they’ll crowd him. Bard had the impression he’d be shy, or at least, wary around little ones, but Lindir just looks blankly down at them, as though he hasn’t decided yet on the best way to act.

Bain cuts in before he can answer, “Are you from King Thranduil’s place?”

“Is it really made out of rock?” Tilda throws in.

“Are you an archer like Da’?”

Now Lindir does look mildly overwhelmed, and Bard steps in to scold, “Don’t pester him. He’s had a long night.”

“But we just want to know—” Tilda starts, stopping when Bard lifts his eyebrows. They’re a handful sometimes, but they are good children. And when they look back at Lindir, they must see that he doesn’t know what to say. 

So Bain sighs, “Okay,” and Tilda follows when he heads back to the stairs. They hesitate there, as though unsure if they’re being sent away or not, but Bard waves a hand to shoo them off—he needs to speak to Lindir. They wrinkle their little noses but listen and scamper off, already whispering to one another, and at the top of the stairs he hears them exclaim, “Sigrid, did you see what Da’ brought home?”

Bard can’t help but wince at the word ‘what’, but Lindir merely turns back to the burner and resumes his scrubbing. 

Bard tells him gently, “You don’t have to do that.”

Lindir freezes without looking aside and says, “You have lovely children.” And then he scrubs all the harder. Bard just stands there and waits, until Lindir gets the message and pauses again, this time looking at him and asking quietly, demurely, “I am invited to stay for... a ‘while’?”

Bard nods. He’d assumed as much. It’s one more mouth to feed, but he can make do. And besides, his kitchen and bedroom have never looked so good. Lindir’s eyes trail vaguely down Bard’s body, then up again, studying him, and Bard gets the uncanny impression that Lindir is looking straight through him, deeper then flesh and bones. He’s the next one to break the silence, offering, “You should rest.” 

Lindir tilts his head to the side and asks, a tad hopefully, “May I prepare breakfast for you and yours?”

* * *

It’s hard to pry the children out of the house when they have a new specimen to study, but when he insists that Lindir needs some quiet time, Sigrid gets on his side and brushes the other two out. They can all see the changes in their house, and Bain and Tilda think it’s marvelous—if Lindir cleans, they don’t have to. He does it more thoroughly than either of them, or even Bard, ever bothered. Lindir doesn’t seem to do anything but clean, though he answers the children’s questions peripherally. He’s kind to them, kind in everything, though strange.

They buy more food than usual, as much as they can, because Bard doesn’t know how much elves eat and he won’t have Lindir starving in his home. Lindir’s already slim and frail. It means he has to give the children a smaller allowance, but they rarely have more than a few coins anyway. When they go off to spend them, he stalls at a stand of wooden instruments, wondering vaguely if buying something _fun_ might break Lindir away from the neurotic cleaning. 

But he can’t afford a present. The old woman who runs the stand seems to know, yet she still smiles at him. When he’s close enough, she bends over it to ask in a conspirator’s whisper, “I heard you took a pretty girl home last night. Is that true, Bard? ‘Bout time you got out there again.” 

Bard just shrugs. He knows she means well—he’s generally well liked, if not by any of the Master’s lot. But he tries not to feed into town gossip. He just hopes those sort of rumours don’t make it back to the children. The woman winks and settles back like she heard all she needs to. She’ll say what she likes either way.

Sigrid returns to him first and asks, “Should we buy Lindir new clothes?”

But Bard can’t afford it yet, so just sighs and shakes his head. Sigrid looks like she understands. She might try to make him something—she gets that artistic look in her eye. He sweeps her up to find the others.

* * *

When he gets home, the whole house looks _brighter_ , and Tilda says in awe, “Did he _dust_?” Then she turns to Bard to ask, “Da’, did you hire a maid?”

Bard sighs, “No,” but wonders. They shuffle inside and shut the door against the cold, and Bain and Tilda go about touching newly-brown surfaces that used to be ashen grey. 

Bard goes up the stairs alone, and he finds Lindir out on the upper balcony, hanging laundry up over twine he’s strung from post to post. This time, when Lindir looks at him, a faint smile tugs at the corner of Lindir’s lips, and it makes Bard’s heart miss half a beat. Then he steps onto the balcony and pulls the curtain shut behind him, thinking they’ll need privacy, and adding a proper balcony door to his many ‘things to do’ list. Lindir drapes one of Sigrid’s dresses over the rope and bends down to pluck a pair of Bard’s trousers out of the basket. 

He hasn’t fully gotten it up when Bard places a hand on his arm, stilling him. The faint remnant of Lindir’s smile disappears. It makes Bard feel like a child trying to coax a timid fawn, and he mumbles, “Lindir, you don’t have to do this.”

Lindir looks away. The balcony is just like any other in Laketown, without any good views, because all the rickety houses are pushed together and each house is as decrepit as the last. Across the way, shrewd hangings block out all the windows. Lindir murmurs, “Please.” Bard doesn’t understand. He keeps his hand on Lindir’s wrist, preventing more work, and after a moment, Lindir exhales heavily and adds, “Let me serve. I feel... _wrong_... when things are in such disarray.”

Then Laketown isn’t a good place from him, which Bard knew from the start. He answers awkwardly, “Fixing that should be my job.”

But Lindir shakes his head, tilts it slightly up, and insists, “It should be your job to house and feed your children, not some strange elf.” Bard would say he doesn’t mind, he’ll find a way, but Lindir suddenly glances at Bard and presses on, “It has always been my duty to clean and serve; I am a personal attendant. Please, let me do this.”

His voice is soft but firm, and Bard doesn’t think he could deny Lindir if he wanted. Their proximity alone and the quiet plea rolling out of Lindir’s plush lips makes him slightly dizzy. It adds a pang of guilt to his mix, to eye his guest like this, when Lindir is so clearly lost and helpless. But he doesn’t know what to do about it or any better help to offer, so finally, he just nods. He lets go of Lindir’s arm, and Lindir’s faint smile returns. 

Lindir resumes hanging laundry. 

And Bard stays as long as he can justify it, wondering if it would help or hurt to join in, then just leaves to clear his head.

* * *

Lindir, in fact, eats very little, when he eats at all. What he does take, he seems to savour, every last bite, with a pretty, far-off look on his face that makes Bard stare longer than he means to. Lindir doesn’t eat with them, but takes little nibbles from what Bard gives him amidst other chores that Bard insists he doesn’t have to do. 

Lindir also prepares the meals, and that and the housework takes everything out of Bard’s equation. He spends his new time playing with his children, which is long overdue, and as the hours go buy, Lindir’s tension around the children seems to melt away, though he’s still very reserved. They don’t mind him at all. Sigrid often casts him sideways looks, but Bard understands: his beauty is captivating. Yet Bard thinks, in time, Sigrid will grow out of it, and realize that Lindir is calmer and for someone older, while she’s young and vital and deserves someone as powerful as she’ll become.

Of course, Bard’s only known Lindir for two days and might be projecting. For all he knows, Lindir could’ve been a skilled warrior before he became an attendant. Though it’s doubtful. When Bain asks Lindir to show him how to use a sword, Lindir politely declines and returns to sewing the broken buttons back onto Tilda’s favourite blue dress.

By the time it grows dark outside, Bain and Tilda’s energy is winding down, and Sigrid, after being teased by her siblings for giving Lindir ‘moon eyes,’ retires early to read. Bard waits until he’s tucked Bain and Tilda in before he retires himself. 

Lindir’s still sitting by the fire, a makeshift, temporary one beneath the window while Bard repairs the old one downstairs. If he ever gets around to finishing that. He watches, for a moment, while Lindir sews Tilda’s dress back to newness, and perhaps better, sturdier than when Bard bought it. 

Then Bard stretches out on the couch, perpendicular to the fire, so he can’t stare anymore, but he can hear the faint crackle of the fire and the hushed tug of Lindir’s thread. Bard uses his own elbow for a pillow and shuts his eyes, strangely tired for how easy the day was.

But he’s barely settled down when he hears footsteps. He opens his eyes to find Lindir kneeling next to him, more alluring than ever in the moon and firelight. Lindir whispers, as though afraid to wake the children through their thick wooden doors, “Please, sleep in your bed.”

Bard grunts back, “That’s for guests.”

Lindir’s eyebrows knit together, and he repeats, “Please.”

Bard almost gives in. Lindir looks like a vision, one he doesn’t deserve, a creature so beautiful kneeling so sweetly before him. Bard licks his lips, considering, and then says, firm, almost an order, “Lindir, go sleep in the bed.”

Lindir hesitates. His eyes search Bard’s, but then he bows partially forward, like a servant bending to a master’s will. He rises delicately to his feet and seems to wade across the floor. 

He’s slow in closing the bedroom door behind himself, but he obeys and does.


	3. Secret

One morning Bard wakes to Bain and Tilda playing in the living room, chasing each other around with their handmade dolls. When he asks if they’re hungry, they say they’ve eaten, and he realizes he’s slept in too long. That almost never happens. Sigrid’s still eating at the kitchen table, a book open in front of her, and she points to a slice of vegetable pie served and waiting for him. He smiles and knows right away who made it. When he asks where Lindir is, Sigrid just says, “Out,” which makes Bard lift an eyebrow. He didn’t think there was anywhere in Laketown Lindir would want to go.

As soon as Bard’s outside, he gets his answer. A faint, lilting melody guides him around the wooden walkway wrapped around the house, holding it above the water. He recognizes Lindir’s soothing voice, even hushed in a hum. He finds Lindir sitting against the back of the house, facing out of Laketown where there’s only the ice and fish to hear him. He has his knees drawn up to his chest and stops his murmured singing when he spots Bard, which makes Bard feel bad for interrupting. Bard means to tell him to keep going but instead blurts, “That was a lovely tune.”

Lindir turns a little red at the tops of his high cheeks and murmurs, “I was something of a minstrel, once.” Bard nods—he could believe that. He takes a few steps closer, pleased when Lindir doesn’t move. He takes a seat beside Lindir on the cold wood, and eventually, Lindir elaborates, “But my... compulsions... lead me to an attendant’s duties more often than not.” He must’ve trained for it too. He speaks the common tongue flawlessly.

Bard still suggests, “You could be both.”

A soft smile plays at the ends of Lindir’s lips, and he admits, “That is what Lord Elrond said.”

It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned any names from his home. It isn’t quite a familiar name to Bard, but there’s something distinct about it, like he may have read it on a scroll once, long ago. It prompts Bard to ask again, genuinely curious, “Why did you leave?” He remembers Lindir saying he wasn’t _fulfilled_ in his last home, but that still leaves so many question. 

Lindir takes a few moments to answer, during which he rearranges the bottom of his robes, then tentatively reaches over to smooth the wrinkles out of Bard’s trouser leg. It makes Bard’s breath catch, but he doesn’t know if it’s meant to be intimate or just another one of Lindir’s oddities. Stroking idly from Bard’s covered knee to ankle, Lindir slowly answers, “I... wished for a master that I could serve in... in all ways...” He isn’t quite meeting Bard’s eye, but chasing the wrinkles he smoothes out one by one. Bard isn’t sure he dares to ask what that service entails. 

Lindir is a very unique creature, but he seems young by Elven standards, much younger than Bard first thought him. Still likely decades older than Bard. Bard would think Elven lords far older, wise and untouchable, and perhaps Lindir wasn’t as free to _please_ the way he so seems to want to. Bard doesn’t know what to say. 

Lindir reaches across Bard’s lap, perhaps to bring order to the other leg of Bard’s trousers, but his hand stills halfway there. Then Tilda’s voice calls out a window, “Da’? Da’, Bain broke Arya!” 

Bain’s voice immediately follows with, “I did not! She broke it herself!”

With a sigh, Bard explains to Lindir, “Her orc doll.” Lindir tilts his head cutely, but why Bard’s youngest daughter wants to play with an orc, of all things, he’ll have to explain another day. The wooden dolls, at least, are something he can fix himself. He climbs back up to his feet and thinks to offer Lindir a hand. But in the end, he doesn’t, because he’s not sure he dares to risk any more contact, tantalizing skin-on-skin, and he’d rather Lindir stay out here to sing than fret over all Bard’s dust.

But Lindir follows him in and helps mend Tilda’s broken doll.

* * *

He feels better leaving when he knows there’s someone staying behind to watch the children. It takes some of the pressure off Sigrid. He still puts it off a few more days, because now he has one more lovely face he doesn’t want to leave behind, but eventually the call comes and he has to set out. He says goodbye to each of them at the door, offering his children hugs and pecks to their foreheads. When it comes to Lindir, he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to say, _sleep in my bed_ , because on the nights he forgets to tell Lindir, Lindir remains up to clean. But it seems too private a thing to say in front of the children, so he just nods. 

Lindir bows his head. When he straightens again, Bard can’t stop himself from saying, “Try not to worry about the house so much.”

Lindir allows a tiny smile. He’ll fret anyway. It’s the way he is, and it’s not Bard’s place to change him. It takes Bard too long to tear his eyes away from that precious grin.

Somehow, he breaks away. They’ve never spoken of how long Lindir will stay. But Bard spends much of his time on the lake hoping that when he returns, Lindir’s right there waiting for him.

* * *

He doesn’t make it back until far after dark—he left too late. He tried to be fast, but the water was rough, and rain bogged him down; he picked the wrong night again. By the time he’s through the door, he has to waste another chunk of time toweling himself down with a spare coat and climbing out of his boots and the puddle on the floor. 

Dinner’s waiting for him, covered on the table, but he’s too tired to eat, and leaves it, however much it warms his heart to find. Sigrid has made him things, once or twice, but it’s hard to predict when he’ll come home and she’s learned not to waste food. He knows it’s from Lindir. When he climbs the stairs, he’s ready to collapse on the couch. 

But he stops on the second landing, surprised to find it already occupied. Lindir’s curled up on the narrow cushion, shivering lightly but fast asleep, his pretty lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. He’s wearing nothing but one of Bard’s tunics, white and too large for such a slender elf—it drapes over him like a nightgown. Bard tiptoes closer, careful not to wake the treasure before him. Then he needs a moment just to take it all in, lit with the stars from the window, the fire long out. The oversized shirt seems to swallow Lindir up, especially curled tight as he is, but his long, thin legs are still visible beneath it, hairless and silken-looking, like only an elf’s skin could be. 

Even the couch itself looks better. When Bard left it, it was full of holes. Now it’s been neatly stitched up again. Lindir’s hair is unbraided and scattered elegantly about the old, floral fabric and Lindir’s shoulders, cushioning his cheek. It might be the most beautiful thing Bard’s ever seen. 

Finally, Bard manages to move. He kneels down and carefully slips his hands beneath Lindir’s knees and middle, and he scoops Lindir up into his arms. He’s often had to carry his children to bed, though Sigrid’s become a tad heavy for it. Lindir’s about her size but weighs less than Tilda. Bard should’ve guessed as much. He holds Lindir securely against his chest and walks over to the bedroom, where he lays Lindir down across the mattress. 

He’s released Lindir’s legs and pulled his arm half out from under Lindir’s back when Lindir’s eyes flutter halfway open. They bat up at him, going no wider, and Bard, still bent over the bed, finds himself transfixed. Lindir’s hands lift, tentatively wrapping around Bard’s shoulders, bidding him back down. With flushed cheeks and heavily-lidded eyes, Lindir begs, “Please, _use me_ , my lord.”

Bard feels like his heart’s stopped beating. Lindir’s mouth is so close to his and would be so easy to capture. But he forces himself to say, “I’m no lord.”

“You are,” Lindir presses, timid but purring, sensual and thick, “You are the descendent of Girion, Lord of Dale...”

Dale’s dead, and more importantly, Bard insists, “I wouldn’t use anyone that way.”

Lindir closes his mouth and doesn’t ask again. Instead, he looks down, his arms detangling from Bard, though Bard’s body screams to have him clinging on again. The hurt on Lindir’s face is obvious. He whispers, “I cannot please you either.”

Then he wrenches right out of Bard’s grasp, sitting up to slip off the bed beyond Bard. He walks quickly from the room, the sad effect somewhat ruined by the way Bard’s shirt barely covers the tops of his thighs. It makes Bard hot beneath his collar when he wants to feel miserable. 

After a minute of confused silence, Bard follows, only to find Lindir already down in the kitchen, on hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. Bard doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to help. Worst of all, he’s _tired_. 

So he gives up and returns to bed, leaving the door open a crack in case Lindir wants to talk. It’s all a headache—he should’ve known this too good to be true.

The ajar door forces him not to touch himself in the middle of the night, which becomes a constant temptation, because the image of Lindir in his tunic won’t leave his mind. He sleeps only restlessly, dreaming all the while of people he never should’ve loved.


	4. Serenity

It’s nice to wake up in his own bed again, and at first, he just stretches out, a little too hot in all his clothes and with a thin sheen of sweat beneath. Then a burst of laughter filters through his cracked-open door, and the woes of last night come flooding back to him. 

With a groan, Bard pushes out of bed. He shuts his door the rest of the way just long enough to change into new clothes, though he’ll need a good wash later. He reopens his door just in time to hear another bought of laughter: Sigrid and Bain’s. Tilda must be telling another of her inventive stories. It doesn’t surprise him to not hear Lindir’s voice join in—Bard’s never heard him laugh.

But it does add to Bard’s worry that Lindir might’ve left, and he couldn’t bear it to happen on these terms. He should’ve said something last night, and he feels foolish and heavy for it. He takes the stairs slower than usual, apprehensive of what he’ll find. 

At the bottom of the stairs waits the perfect scene. All three children are at the table, bread and salads on their plates. Lindir is at the sink, washing dishes, but as soon as Bard’s feet are on the first landing, Lindir seamless shifts to setting a fourth place on the table. He serves some of the salad from the bowl in the middle onto that new plate, then carves another slice out of the loaf of bread sitting presentably in the wrapper. By the time Bard’s reached the table, Lindir’s buttering his toast. 

Then, before Bard can say a word, Lindir dips his head and bustles off up the stairs, likely to find more messes to attend to. 

Bard would go after him, but Bain grabs at Bard’s sleeve and tugs him into his seat, chirping, “Da’, did you hear the one about the goblin and the dwarf?”

“Let me tell it!” Tilda insists. 

Bain whines at her, but Sigrid asks over them, “Is he alright?” She gestures towards the stairs with her fork, the mirth on her face slipping into concern. “All he does is clean...”

“That’s just the way he is, Sigrid,” Bain answers before Bard can. He taps his head with his butter-knife, as though to indicate it’s all in Lindir’s head, and it gets a bit of crumbs in Bain’s hair in the process. He wrinkles his nose when Bard brushes them out. 

“Besides,” Tilda adds, “if he does it, we don’t have to. Don’t complain.”

Sigrid clicks her tongue and gives Tilda a scolding look. “We should still help him. It’s no reason to be a slob. Right, Da’?”

Bard says, “Yes,” but really isn’t sure. He needs to talk to Lindir about it. He needs to talk to Lindir about a lot of things. He’s sure Lindir needs something to do—everyone wants to feel useful—but he doesn’t want Lindir feeling pressured to pick up after them, and he doesn’t want his kids becoming lazy. And he’s hungry. He’ll have to eat first, partially for that and partially because Tilda suddenly launches into her goblin-dwarf story, and he always tries to hear out her avid imagination. 

When the salad’s all gone and just the bread’s left—warm and fluffy, toasted just right—he prepares to make his leave. Tilda finishes her story to a roar of ruckus laughter, even from the two listeners who heard it the first time around. A knock sounds on the door before Bard’s finished chuckling. 

Answering the door wipes the grin right off his face, and he spends the next several hours telling Alfrid off.

* * *

Alfrid, and different configurations of Alfrid with men from the Master, want a look at Bard’s pretty guest. They’ve heard rumours, and of course, Alfrid has nothing better to do than chase gossip and snap at Bard’s heels. Bard refuses to let them over the threshold and insists, simply because it’s easier, that the rumours were greatly exaggerated and he isn’t harbouring anyone. Alfrid scowls and prods anyway, but, as usual, it seems he wants more to cause trouble and to pester Bard than to actually uncover anything. By the time Bard finally shakes Alfrid off, he’s got a pounding headache and nothing left of the good mood breakfast gave him. The kids have long since left the kitchen—it pains him for them to witness such antics, but they sadly know how it goes.

He’s surprised, however, to find Lindir back in the kitchen, doing dishes again from the lunch Bard must’ve missed. A plate with new food sits on the table for him, and Lindir pauses with his hands in the soapy water, turning to say, “I am sorry to have caused you such distress.”

Bard shakes his head and slips down into a chair, pulling the vegetable tart towards him. He has no idea how Lindir manages to cook such dishes with how little ingredients Bard provides. “It wasn’t really about you—he’s always like that.”

Lindir doesn’t look wholly convinced, but instead notes quietly, “You look tense.”

Bard _is_ tense. It helps that Lindir doesn’t seem particularly upset over last night, but the conversation’s still hanging over Bard’s head. He savours his first bite of the tart, no longer surprised to find it divine. He just shrugs at Lindir’s comment. He doesn’t know what to say, and now he’s not sure if he should even say anything; he doesn’t want to do anything to upset this delicate balance Lindir’s woven into his life. 

Then Lindir asks, “Would you like a massage?” Bard’s fork freezes in his mouth. 

He’d very, very much like Lindir’s hands on him, working out all his stress and kneading beneath his tunic, down to _skin-on-skin_. Maybe it’s an innocent request, but his dirty mind won’t take it that way. Lindir’s expression is carefully neutral, no matter how deeply Bard searches it. Bard lied with ease to Alfrid, but he’s not sure he could to Lindir. 

He’s saved from answering by Lindir turning back around and resuming the dishes, maybe dismissing the thought. It leaves Bard staring at the lean lines of his back and wondering if there’s any room in the budget for new robes, something Lindir could tailor to his liking. Perhaps with Lindir home and watching the children, Bard could find another job. Or Sigrid, now that she isn’t so burdened with watching her younger siblings, could start on those books she’s often spoken of writing. 

It’s about time to go shopping for food again anyway. Bard announces, “I think I’ll try to make it to the market and back before dark. Do you want to come?”

Lindir pauses. Now Bard can practically see his mind, working over the question, trying to determine whether it’s an order or not. After a minute, Lindir slowly answers, “Not yet, I think.” He doesn’t say anymore, but Bard takes it to mean he’s not ready to leave the house. Maybe it’s too dirty out there, or maybe it’s still too dirty in here. Or maybe Lindir’s just not something Bard can fathom without more time and some deep conversations. 

They’ll have one tonight. He won’t let himself put it off any longer than that. For now, he brings his empty plate to the sink and makes a point of catching Lindir’s eye to say, “Thank you. That was delicious.” Lindir cracks a small smile, then blushes pink and hurriedly looks back down at the dishes. 

So Bard retreats. He wanders back up the stairs to see if anyone else wants to catch some arguably fresh air, but Sigrid he asks specially to come; she’s better at buying clothes than him.

* * *

He didn’t find anything exactly right, but he didn’t expect to. Sigrid spotted a bathrobe that could likely be tailored to an Elven facsimile, and Bard figured it would have to do. He’s now got it bundled up in his arms, Tilda and Bain making a contest out of who can carry the most groceries the longest. Bain’s a little older and perhaps has more muscle for it, but no one beats Tilda in determination. Sigrid smartly stays out of it, and she’s the only one free to swing her arms on the way home. 

They make it back a bit after dark, which Bard tries not to do with the children, but at least he has them all together. By the time they’re setting groceries on the table, Tilda and Bain are rubbing their shoulders and groaning, in between triumphant bickering over who handled more weight. Bard tells them he’s impressed with both of their strength and sends them off to bed. 

Sigrid offers to put away the groceries. Bard would insist otherwise, but he’s still half-hoping he’ll catch Lindir awake—and half dreading it and looking for an excuse to put it off another day—and Sigrid says, “Oh, let me do _something_. I appreciate all of Lindir’s work, but I’d like to think I can still be marginally helpful.”

“You’re more of a help to me than you’ll ever know,” Bard assures her, and place a kiss on her forehead. She smiles fondly and shoos him towards the stairs, while he calls after her, “Good night.”

Her returned, “Good night, Da’,” follows him up the second landing. 

The living room is unoccupied, which worries Bard at first, but then he spots his bedroom door ajar, and he can see the flicker of candlelight inside. He knocks against the doorframe just in case, and Lindir’s voice answers, “Come in.”

Bard has to open the door much wider to slip inside, and he’s careful to close it behind himself, just in case—this isn’t going to be a conversation for anyone to overhear. He turns back around to find Lindir perched delicately in the middle of the bed, one of Bard’s old jackets strewn over his lap. He’s mending a hole beneath the sleeve, a candle on the dresser lighting his way. He glances once at the bundle of fabric tucked under Bard’s arm, then says, “You do not need to knock to enter your own chambers.”

Bard snorts, because ‘chambers’ is a very generous term for his tiny bedroom. And he’s not exactly sure whose bedroom it’s going to stay. But that’s another problem for another night, and instead, he lifts up the new robes, explaining, “There wasn’t anything like your robes at the market, so I got the closest I could. I’m afraid you’ll have to alter them how you like.” He places the bundle on the nightstand, not missing the way Lindir’s eyes widen.

As Bard takes his seat on the bed, close but deliberately not close enough for their knees to touch, Lindir mumbles, “You did not have to do that.”

Bard _wanted_ to. He waves a hand. It’s another conversation they don’t need to get into. But the one they have to have is difficult to start. He doesn’t quite know how, and in his hesitation, Lindir lowers the coat and tilts his head cutely to the side. Bard finally manages to grunt, “Lindir, about... about last night...” Lindir’s cheeks quickly stain pink, and Bard hurries on before they can have another misunderstanding, “I’m sorry. I handled that poorly, and I should’ve spoken to you immediately—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Lindir cuts in, then looks sharply away and falls instantly quiet, though Bard’s run out of things to say. He feels like it was his fault but can’t articulate it. After a minute, Lindir’s tongue pokes out of his pert lips, and he runs it along them, clearly thinking, then opens his mouth as though to speak, only to close it again. He won’t look at Bard. 

It makes Bard move when he shouldn’t, shifting just that bit closer. He puts one hand over Lindir’s, the one without the needle, and it works—Lindir looks back to him. Sucking in a breath, Bard starts, “Lindir, I won’t pretend to understand you. I don’t. So I need you tell me what you _want_. Because I’ll be happy to give that to you, if I can. I know this is an unpleasant place and I don’t have much to offer, but you deserve much more than puttering about after some tired bargeman.”

Lindir shakes his head, and in Bard’s pause of breath, insists, “No, I... I wish to ‘putter about’ after you. It is _what I do_. And without it, when I left with so little plans, I felt... I was _empty_...” Now it’s Lindir’s turn to pause, but Bard lets him exhale and bring his eyes back to Bard’s. “Yet I am now pleased I did. I have enjoyed serving you. Even if I should not... if you do not wish...” he trails off again, dying out and seeming to shrink. Bard squeezes his hand. 

Bard’s glad to know all that. It takes a burden off his chest, that Lindir would choose this, which is what he has to clarify. “Lindir, that’s not... look, we need to talk about that.” Lindir, somehow, turns redder and looks so far across the room that he may as well be twisting around. 

So Bard takes more contact he hasn’t earned. He lifts his free hand to Lindir’s face, gently cups Lindir’s cheek, and turns Lindir to face him. Lindir shudders lightly in his grasp, eyelids falling halfway closed, head tilting into the touch. A breathy gasp winds out of his parted lips, and it warps what Bard was going to say. 

“Lindir, I appreciate you, I do. You’re very good to me and to my children. You’re skilled, kind, and very, very beautiful. I was so _tired_ , and always stressed, before you came, but you give me moments of peace. I haven’t known you long, and we’ve spoken far too little, but you’ve already become an intrinsic part of my life. And it _isn’t_ that I don’t want you, because I would—”

Lindir halts him with a breathy, nearly moaned, “ _My lord_...” 

Bard has to stop just to handle the shiver that runs down his spine. He has to force himself to go on. “I’m not a lord, Lindir. I don’t _use_ people. I’m not...” He doesn’t know what. 

Lindir’s eyebrows knit together in the middle, hurt, a little surprised, maybe confused. He murmurs, “I just wish to please you.”

“I know. But I won’t impose my wants on you.”

“They are _my_ wants too,” Lindir says, and then he takes the hand that Bard isn’t holding to lift and cup Bard’s palm against his cheek. He turns to it to place a feather-light kiss on Bard’s flushed palm. When he looks back to Bard, clarity has finally come into his eyes. 

“Forgive me. I should have better expressed myself. I do not call you a lord because I project this easily onto others, but because I see in you where the title is earned. It was your ancestor’s, and so should it be yours, not just by blood but by your worthy hand. You have much in your destiny, I think, that you have not yet seen.” It’s Bard’s turn to blush, but when he tries to pull his hand away, Lindir’s fingers tighten around it, and he holds it still to mumble against it, “And I wish you to be not just any lord, but _mine_.”

Bard’s throat has gone inexplicably dry. He tries to ask, “And... pleasing me...”

“I want that so desperately,” Lindir moans, finally relinquishing Bard’s hand so he can tilt forward. He moves the coat from his lap without even looking, and instead lifts his arms to delicately place over Bard’s shoulders, his slender knees parting around Bard’s. “You would not be imposing,” Lindir goes on in a husky, lewd purr that leaves Bard reeling. “I find you _intoxicating._ ”

One of Lindir’s hands slips down again, running over Bard’s chest, _feeling_ him through his tunic, and now Bard can barely breathe. Lindir climbs so fluidly into his lap, weighing hardly anything but so _warm_ and tantalizing. As Lindir traces Bard’s shape he hums, “You are kind as well, my lord. And you are strong and brave. Protective, sturdy, offering solace and safety. You are a good father, a good-caretaker—I consider that a _very_ endearing quality. I can enjoy attending to your family as well. And you accept me the way I am, which is difficult, even among my own people. ...And, of course, you are incredibly _handsome_...”

Lindir’s face comes ever closer, Bard’s mouth hungry for it. He can’t help but bring his hands to Lindir’s sides. That’s probably the most Lindir’s ever spoken to him at once, but Lindir doesn’t at all seem to find their lack of communication a problem. His searching hand returns back up to the other, and his arms wrap fully around Bard’s shoulders, his body so close that Bard can taste his breath. 

It’s the final straw. Bard can’t hold back anymore; he gives in and surges forward, holding Lindir fast against him, his face tilting as their mouths slam together. Lindir presses in just as tightly, his chest arching closer to flatten against Bard’s. Bard has a few seconds to enjoy how _soft_ Lindir’s lips are, and then Lindir parts them, and Bard takes the invitation. He dips his tongue inside, probing at the hot cavern before him and stroking along Lindir’s tongue, which makes Lindir moan delightedly, though muffled. Lindir kisses him so fiercely that Bard loses balance, and he lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, Lindir coming with him. 

Even then, Bard can’t stop, still busy exploring Lindir’s mouth. Lindir lies atop him, starting to squirm, and then his hips grind against Bard’s crotch, and Bard pulls back enough to moan. 

Lindir grins like an animal. It’s the widest he’s smiled since he came here, and the flickering firelight gives it a feral twist that makes Bard’s skin burn all the hotter. Lindir withdraws, elegantly sitting up, straddling Bard’s middle and subtly grinding their hips together. Bard’s still holding Lindir’s waist and bites back a few curse words too coarse for Lindir’s fair presence.

Lindir asks, deceptively sweet, “How may I serve you now, my lord? I can do anything you like...” The light in his eyes makes it very clear that he _wants_ an answer; he wants to do whatever Bard would wish. He craves subservience. And Bard, on his back with a pretty elf writhing atop his crotch, doesn’t have the strength anymore to fight it. 

It’s been too long, and his mind’s an instant frenzy of fantasies, though he’s sure he’d like anything Lindir gave him. For no particular reason, he grunts, “Ride me.” It’s not meant to be an order, but it comes out that way. Lindir looks dizzy from the thought. 

He bites his bottom lip, drags his taut rear across Bard’s trousers, and asks coyly, “In all my clothes?”

“Take them off,” Bard snaps, and he’d do it himself—he longs to tear at Lindir’s robes—but he worries if he tried, he’d tear the only good clothes Lindir has. So Bard keeps his hands clamped to Lindir rocking hips while Lindir lifts delicate fingers to his collar, traces open his neckline, and pulls the silken fabric away. 

He strips himself with ease, beauty, like he does everything, slowly revealing creamy skin that Bard can’t wait to sink his teeth into. Bard only removes his hands when Lindir gently pushes them away, gaining the room to sit up on his knees and squirm out of his robes. When he’s untangled them all, he folds them up, then pulls Bard’s forgotten coat atop it, and reaches to sit the bundle squarely on the nightstand. He doesn’t leave Bard’s lap the whole time. When he’s done, he straightens up, giving Bard a chance to take it all in, and Bard hungrily devours everything he sees. 

Lindir’s just as gorgeous as Bard imagined, as furtive peeks promised. He’s the sort of ethereal perfection that only an elf could offer: all long limbs and flawless skin and smooth lines, supple curves. His body is flat, whereas Bard’s is dusted with the outlines of hardened muscles. Lindir doesn’t try to remove Bard’s clothes, and Bard doesn’t spare it any thought. He’s busying eyeing Lindir, from the dark hair that cascades down Lindir’s shoulders to the slender cock that rises between his legs, hairless like everywhere but his head, with tight, round stones beneath that rest against Bard’s stomach. Lindir’s cock arches up, hard, pink at the veiled tip. Bard can feel his mouth watering and vaguely wonders when he became so attracted to a man. 

His attention’s only lifted when Lindir brings his fingers to his lips, pressing two inside to suckle. For the first two, Bard just _stares_ , captivated with the way they slide so luxuriously in and out, newly glistening with saliva, but then Bard thinks to mutter, cursing, “Oil. I didn’t think to get any—”

Lindir pops his fingers out of his mouth and drags them sensually down his front, purring, “There is no need. I am a very willing elf, and I know my body will take you...” He trails off as he reaches Bard’s trousers, where he deftly pulls the tie loose. Bard’s left wondering if their anatomies are so different, but the thought flitters out the window when Lindir’s hands slip under the fabric to curl around his shaft. Bard groans, bucking up enough to make Lindir bounce, and Lindir grins all the brighter, pulling Bard out to coo, “Although, I see my lord is very sizeable... you may have to be gentle with me, this first time, though I promise I will practice and learn to accommodate my lord’s immense girth, so that you may soon use me however you wish...”

Bard’s never been so hard in his life. He would’ve wanted to be gentle, but part of him screams to flip them over and pound Lindir hard into the mattress. The only thing that holds him back is the knowledge that Sigrid’s room is next door, and he can’t afford the loud, rough fuck he wants. Instead, he runs his hands along Lindir’s thighs and nods. Lindir bends down to place a chaste kiss on Bard’s nose, but when Bard tries to capture his lips, Lindir pulls away again, rising to his knees and lining his body up. Bard watches, mesmerized, as his cock disappears between Lindir’s legs, brushed between his cheeks. Lindir holds onto Bard’s base and uses his other hand to stretch his bottom apart, and he takes a moment to touch himself that way, biting his lower lip. 

Then he presses down, and Bard grits his teeth at once to stop the scream. The head of his cock pops right inside, into a warm, wet hole that’s impossibly tight and flexes wildly around him. Lindir lets out a little cry but quickly catches himself, head ducking forward. Then he moves his hands to Bard’s chest, supporting himself on his trembling thighs. 

He sinks lower bit by bit, first down and then a little up, rocking farther each time, and Bard grips tight to Lindir’s tender flesh and tries _so hard_ not to buck right up and impale Lindir like he wants to. Lindir’s ass is greedy and sucks at him, the pressure invigorating, but it’s such a tight squeeze. If Bard had his way, he’d slow them for Lindir’s sake, but Lindir keeps going, going, until he can finally drop his weight and sit atop Bard, full to the brim. Bard’s breathing very, very hard and fighting to stay still and quiet. The expression that’s come over Lindir’s face is one of pure bliss, and it melts Bard to see. 

Right when Bard’s about to beg for _something_ , Lindir moves again, rising up to let Bard slip out, not quite all the way, and then he slides back down, swallowing Bard up, only to repeat the process. He works himself into a wild rhythm, faster and faster, not at all the ‘gentle’ flow Bard expected, and he’s gasping and moaning for it, probably louder than they should be but not enough for Bard to stop it, and Lindir whimpers around it all, “I... I am sorry, my lord, it... I have never... you are _just_ what I have wanted, and you feel so _good_ inside me, I... I...” Then he seems to lose his air, and he darts one hand up to clamp over his mouth. First thing in the morning, Bard means to find a way to soundproof these rooms, because he _wants_ to hear every eager breath that comes out of Lindir’s mouth. 

Bard understand and doesn’t trust himself to return any of the endearments he feels, because he’ll just growl it—he’s already panting for breath and hitching his hips up to meet Lindir’s thrusts, just enough that the bed creaks here and there, too old for this, for all of Bard’s weight and the passion Lindir brings. Lindir rides him so perfectly, so beautifully, and feels so, _so wondrous_ , Bard can barely help himself. He wants to pull Lindir down into him, but doesn’t have the chance. 

It’s too much ecstasy after too long a dry spell, and he comes before he’s ready, hissing fiercely between his teeth and letting Lindir go to fist the blankets beneath him. Lindir rides him right through it, squirming all the harder and crying out into his palm, face scrunching up like Bard’s pleasure is his own, or being filled with Bard’s seed is the height of it for him. Bard thinks to _touch him_ but needs a second, so entrenched in heat and pleasure.

Bard’s barely started coming back down when he grabs Lindir’s cock. He should’ve done it to start with but got too distracted. He half expects Lindir to swat him away, but there’s no need—as soon as Bard touches him, Lindir spills himself across Bard’s tunic, buckling forward and gasping against his hand. Bard pumps him out anyway, while Lindir slowly stills.

Lindir stays on for a moment, both of them satiated and wracked with laboured breath. But Lindir is the first to climb off, letting Bard’s spent cock fall out of him. Bard grunts at the loss and wishes he were younger and could just go again. Lindir, to Bard’s pleasant surprise, lies down next to him, finally acting like a lover.

Lindir rests his cheek on Bard’s shoulder, even though Bard’s coat is in need of a good wash. Now both he and Lindir are too. They’ll have to get up early for it. Lindir sighs, sounding utterly content, “Will you stay in your bed now?”

“If you join me,” Bard answers, voice a little hoarse from the strain of sex. He worms his arm beneath Lindir’s body so he can pull Lindir tighter against his side, and Lindir laughs—a lovely, lilting sound like a bell, and wraps his arms around Bard’s middle, nuzzling happily into Bard’s being.

* * *

Somehow, even after fairly rigorous sex, Lindir fetching him water and climbing into bed with him, Bard still wakes up in the middle of the night. They blew out the candle, but there’s still moonlight behind his tattered curtains, enough to see faint silhouettes by. Bard blinks his eyes slowly open, wondering what woke him.

He went to sleep with Lindir by his side. But now he spots Lindir sitting at the end of the bed, looking out the window. He has his hair all scooped over one shoulder, fingers dancing it into braids, and his lips are parted in a quiet song. Bard listens in a sort of peaceful rapture, unwilling to move lest he disturb his songbird, but the tune eventually comes to its own end. Bard makes a mental note to buy Lindir a harp in the morning, or whatever instrument an Elven minstrel might desire.

As tempting as it is to let Lindir trail into another melody, a yawn betrays Bard. When Lindir looks around at him, wearing a soft, fond smile, Bard feels he may as well mutter, “Come back to bed.” He holds out a lazy arm and lets his eyes close, wanting sleep, but a warm body next to him for it. 

He can feel the mattress dip as Lindir crawls to him, and then Lindir slips beneath the sheets and curls up to Bard’s back, sighing pleasantly, “If you wish, my lord.”


End file.
